


ME!

by octothorpetopus



Series: Lover [6]
Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Academy Awards, Adult Eddie Kaspbrak, Adult Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Adult Losers Club (IT), Adult Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Established Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Gay Richie Tozier, M/M, Married Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, POV Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Soft Richie Tozier, Song: ME! (Taylor Swift), Speeches, richie is just the gay john mulaney, we all know that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-10-26 18:47:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20747000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octothorpetopus/pseuds/octothorpetopus
Summary: Winning an Emmy is a hell of an accomplishment, especially for Richie’s first-ever attempt at writing his own material. And when he wins, he knows exactly who he wants to thank.





	ME!

Richie adjusts his bow tie one last time in the side mirror of the limo. He can hear the seemingly deafening roar of the crowd, of the reporters and nominees and everyone else outside. His manager sits across from him, spouting off reminders. Richie barely hears him.

”-and if you lose, look happy anyway. No one likes a sore loser, and if you want another season, you’ll-“

”I got it,” Richie says, cutting him off. He can’t take it anymore. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” His agent and former manager, David, sighs. 

“Fine.” He checks his watch and looks around nervously. “Are you sure you don’t want someone to walk the carpet with? It’s not too late, I hear Zachary Quinto’s still available-“

”I don’t need a date,” Richie says, rolling his eyes. “I’m still married. Even if he’s not here.”

”Of course.” Before David can say anything else, Richie opens the door and steps out into the Los Angeles evening, his brand-new converse sneakers sinking into the plush red carpet. The sneakers are his signature, and it’s written into his contract that he gets to wear them everywhere. Even, as is specifically stated in the writing, to the Emmys. They do not go with his tuxedo, and he has been reminded of this every single minute of every day since his nomination was announced. Well, nominations.

”Richie! Richie, over here!” Some reporter shouts. He vaguely recognizes her from a popular morning talk show that he always gets up too late to watch, but hears about constantly from his early-bird husband. He puts on an easy smile as he approaches, hoping it doesn’t look too fake. It’s not fake, not the excitement, but he can’t help but think that he should not be alone right now.

”I’m here with Richie Tozier, writer and star of the hit new horror-sitcom, ‘The Losers Club’, streaming now on HBO. Now, Richie, you’re famously very good friends with author William Denbrough.” It takes all of Richie’s self control not to laugh. Hearing people call Bill ‘William’ is like hearing himself called ‘Richard’, which only ever happens when Eddie gets mad. “Lots of people have drawn comparisons between ‘The Losers Club’ and Denbrough’s books. Was there any inspiration that came to you from reading your friend’s writing?” Richie laughs good-naturedly.

”Wow, starting off with the tough questions. Aren’t you going to ask me who I’m wearing?” The reporter chuckles politely. “No, but seriously, both Bill and I take our inspiration from our childhoods. We grew up together, and the kids we write about are definitely inspired by ourselves. So in a way, yes, I do take some of my inspiration from Bill, but it’s more from the person himself than his books.” She nods, clearly surprised by the eloquence of his answer. “And, uh, this suit is Gucci. Just so you know.”

He fights his way through the crowd (metaphorically, of course. He still stops for photos and interviews, and to talk to the odd acquaintance) and finally gets inside. He finds his seat between two of his co-stars, a young woman who resembles Bev in almost every way except that her hair is black, not red, and a man who resembles Eddie so heavily that Richie has, much to his husband’s annoyance, mistaken for him at least five times. The lights dim, the show begins, the host launches into her monologue, and Richie hardly even notices. It is a blur of standing, sitting, applauding, laughing, of lights and sparkles and the swish of gowns and tuxedo pants. Jameela Jamil leans back for a selfie. Tony Shalhoub accidentally knocks his glasses off on his way up to collect his award. John Mulaney cracks a joke so funny it takes all of Richie’s effort not to laugh through the ‘In Memoriam’ video. And then it is his award, Outstanding Lead Actor in a Comedy Series. The announcer, a young woman Richie vaguely recognizes from this summer’s biggest action movie, flashes a brilliant white smile and lists off the nominees, ending with “...Richie Tozier as Bradley Thompson in ‘The Losers Club.’” She opens the gold envelope with delicate hands and Richie can feel his breath catch in his throat. He hardly expected to be nominated. He would not win. And yet, he has never been more anxious in his life, except on the day he asked Eddie to marry him. 

“And the Emmy for Outstanding Lead Actor in a Comedy Series goes to... Richie Tozier for ‘The Losers Club!’”

Richie doesn't register the shock at first. He thinks perhaps it is a dream, and when he stands on the stage to collect his award, he will be in his underwear. Or maybe it's Eddie, who had mocked him with this since his nomination was announced (lovingly, of course). But no, it's real, and he realizes it when his female co-star throws her arms around him, squealing excitedly. He rises to his feet, smiling unsteadily, and scoots out to the aisle. He was not supposed to win, he thinks. That's why they put him in the middle of the row instead of the end, where he could get out more easily. The probable winners are always in the aisle seats because it gives them an easy path to the stage. It's an odd moment of clarity, and it passes quickly, and then he is rising the stairs, and he's being handed the golden statue, and his face is warm under the lights. He blinks, expecting the glare of light on glass, but it never comes. He wears contacts now, he remembers, and laughs at his own short-mindedness. He has to bend down a little to reach the microphone, and as he pats his jacket pocket, realizes he has forgotten his speech at home. Fuck. He's going to be "that guy", the guys who forgets his notecards and has to make the whole thing up on the fly. Still, it's probably better than standing in awkward silence, which is what he's doing right now.

"Um... as a kid, I told a lot of jokes. And mostly, they weren't funny. But if you told that kid that one day, he'd be standing on this stage, he probably would have said 'yeah, right' and then made a crude joke about your mom." There is a smattering of polite laughter. He is building speed now, snowballing. "But that kid from Maine couldn't have gotten here without a lot of help, so there are some people I need to thank. My parents, Maggie and Wentworth, for always laughing, even when I was being a complete idiot. My agent, David Lukas, who convinced me to make the move from stand-up to TV. I'd like to thank my co-stars, who are the funniest, sweetest, best people I could have asked to work with, and for never being dicks about being more attractive than me, even though you clearly are. You're the best minions I've ever had. But seriously, I sometimes feel like the show was written for you guys, even though I literally had no idea who any of you were before the first day." Richie scans the room. He sees a hundred people he knows and a thousand he doesn't. He sees friends and idols and people he doesn't even recognize. And in all of them, he sees the one person he wishes were here most, the one person who _isn't _here.

"And last, but absolutely not least, there's one more person I need to thank. My husband, Eddie, the light of my life. Without him, this show wouldn't exist. When we got together three years ago, I was still using a ghostwriter. It was writing jokes about Eddie that got me to write my own material, and then my agent approached me about writing a pilot for this show, and now here we are, and it all came from him. This show is inspired by our childhood, growing up together, then reconnecting as adults. He's my constant inspiration. I do everything I do for him. He's at home with our son right now, because he said he wasn't going to come all the way from New York to LA just to watch me lose- that's a direct quote. And as he knows damn well, there's nothing I love more than proving him wrong."

He looks directly into the camera now, smiling wider than before. "I won, baby, I did it. And I did it for you. I love you, Eds." He blows a kiss to the camera and flushes, maybe from the heat of the lights, maybe from the out-of-character gesture. He embraces the announcer, kissing her cheek gently as he exits, desperate for the first time in his 43 years of life to be out of the spotlight. He is almost back to his seat when he stops fast, nearly slamming into the figure that he hadn't seen before in the dark theater. His gaze travels up from the impeccably polished shoes to the neatly pressed tuxedo pants, to the burgundy velvet jacket he had custom-made as a birthday present last year. It is Eddie, he knows it is, before his eyes finally meet the tear-filled, puppy-dog brown ones of his husband.

"You came," he says, his eyes turning from gray to a watery black.

"You won," Eddie replies, and Richie's tearful face breaks out in a huge, toothy grin. He cups Eddie's cheek (the one with the scar on it) in his broad, hairy hand, and leans down, pulling Eddie into a long, feverish kiss. The cameras catch every second, but they don't notice, nor do they care. Richie leads Eddie by the hand into the row of seats, and they sit beside each other, their legs scrunched together in the limited leg room.

"I know you didn't come just because I won," Richie whispers. "You would've had to leave seven hours ago. At least."

"I realized, like, two hours after you left that I was basically being a massive piece of shit. So I hopped on the next Delta flight here- way less nice than the Cessna, by the way- changed in the airport bathroom, and came straight here. I had to call David and have him talk to security just so I could get in. Apparently, the photos of our wedding are not enough to prove we're married."

"I'm glad you're here." Richie intertwines his fingers with Eddie's, then gasps. "Fuck. What'd you do with the baby?"

"First of all, you gotta stop calling him 'the baby.' Stan's almost three."

"Yeah, but he's _my _baby."

"Good luck with that once he hits school age, my love. And in terms of what I quote-unquote 'did with him', I called that sitter, the one Blake and Ryan recommended at poker night. And before you asked, yes, I interviewed her; yes, she speaks three languages; yes, she can bake, play guitar, and has half the best doctors in Manhattan on her speed dial. She's perfect, and has been texting me updates every half-hour." Richie's head lolls onto Eddie's shoulder, and they nestle into each other like puzzle pieces. Richie's show wins again and again, the articles the next day will say it swept. Richie's hotel room is paid through for another day, but Eddie helps him pack. They load what little luggage they have into the back and take off (the first thing Richie did after returning from Derry was get his pilot's license). The palm trees and city lights below give way to dark, lightless desert, and then mountains, then cornfields and lakes and long stretches of empty plain. And then, just as the dark violet sky begins to fade into the faintest streaks of yellow and pink and blue, just as the star begin to disappear and the moon becomes almost translucent, the silhouette of the New York skyline appears against it.

"Home again," Eddie says, his eyes tired, but he has never looked happier, except maybe the first time he saw Stan.

"Finally." The plane touches down at an airfield in Queens, and they step out, stretching their tired limbs. Richie stares up at the sky, in which the sun is steadily rising. They go home to their Upper East Side condo, careful to shut the door behind them as quietly as possible. The windows are dark, but a thin stream of light flows out from under one of the bedroom doors, the one with a big green 'S' tacked to it. They open the door as softly as they can and look in on the young, curly-haired boy asleep, his Star Wars nightlight the source of the light. They leave him asleep, and the Emmy on the mantle. Eddie steps into the bathroom, and Richie can hear the shower start. He tosses his jacket on the chair in the corner and yanks his shirt and tie over his head. He goes to the terrace and looks out at the East River below. It's a chilly early morning, very early, and the breeze ruffles the thin layer of dark hair on his bare chest. He hears a honking horn, a couple arguing, glass shattering and water crashing. They are all sounds he heard before, in Derry, in Chicago, in Los Angeles. But they sound different here. Or maybe he is just seeing the world through new eyes, different eyes. The eyes of a man who has everything he wants. He feels cold tears on his face and brushes them away half-heartedly. He has not realized until now that his life is perfect. Legitimately, genuinely, certifiably perfect. Out of the closet? Check. Dream job? Check. A loving husband and son? Check. And now, one last validation that he is, in fact, on top of the world. It's sitting on his fireplace right now, but it's nothing compared to the boy with the Star Wars nightlight and the man in the shower. They are worth every award, every affirmation, every positive review, every selfie with a fan, everything.

Richie hears the shower shut off and the snap of the towel as Eddie pulls it off the hook. He sits on the bed and wiggles out of his tuxedo pants, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He does not turn around when he hears the door behind him open, nor does he move when the other side of the bed sinks under Eddie's weight. A hand comes to rest on his shoulder, folding around his upper arm. Feather-light kisses brush his other shoulder, tracing a line across his shoulder blades. He twists his upper body around to face Eddie, who smiles serenely up at him. Richie places a hand on his chest, his thumb gently circling one of Eddie's two black star tattoos.

"How's it feel to be back?" Eddie asks, leaning into Richie.

"I liked the ocean air, but I have to say... I missed the smog." Eddie chuckles and fidgets with his his inhaler (it's new, and he carries it with him everywhere. It's more of a security blanket than anything else.)

"I don't know, I mean... since we spent those few months out there shooting the show, I've given it some thought, and... what would you say to moving? Somewhere else? Anywhere else?" Richie looks up in shock.

"You serious?"

"Yeah, I mean, it's not like I want to move back to Derry or anything, but think about it. If we went to Pasadena, or Santa Monica, or San Diego-"

"You really liked California, I take it?"

"I did, but if you think about it, it'd make perfect sense for us. And we wouldn't have to live in the middle of the city. I- I love New York, Richie, I do, that's why I moved here, but it's never where I imagined raising kids, if I imagined that at all. But we loved it there. And Stan loved it there. And if we went there, he could grow up on the beach instead of the sidewalks, and he might actually be able to see the stars at night, and-"

"Okay, Eds, calm down." Richie laughs and flops onto his back. Eddie falls beside him, and they turn to look at each other. "Let's do it?" Eddie cocks an eyebrow.

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. You're right, as always. And besides, it's warmer there. It's too goddamn cold here." Eddie curls an arm over Richie and buries his face in Richie's chest.

"I love you, you know that? And I literally couldn't be prouder of you if I tried." Richie pulls Eddie in closer and presses a kiss to the top of his head.

"It's all for you, Eddie. All of it. That statue out there is yours, baby. And so am I."


End file.
